Page 2 of The Break Down

And she’s coming on tour with us.

For the entire season.

God save me.

I’ve worn the number eight since I was thirteen. It’s not just a jersey. It’s who I am.

Strong and powerful, but also mobile and skilled with ball handling.

Ha ha. Shut up. I know I walked into that one.

Anyway, number eight is like the engine room.

The muscle, yes, but more.

Number eight is the player who dictates whether to go wide, keep it tight, or reset the attack.

The calm in the chaos of the breakdown.

Except there’s nothing calm about her.

She’s the breakdown, the ruck, the bloody scrum, and the goddamn try all rolled into one.

Finley Adamo is my kryptonite.

There. I said it.

She’s the itch I can’t scratch, the fire I can’t put out, the walking migraine that somehow smells like vanilla and sin and something that might actually be worth ruining my life over.

But this thing I’m doing now?

Wearing the number eight jersey for the Carolina Rovers?

Playing in Major League Rugby all the way out in Bumblefuck, U.S.A.?

It matters.

It’s not just some side gig. Not just a paycheck. This is it for me.

My last real chance to make something of myself. To be great.

Not decent. Not good.

Great.

And I know what people think. They look at me and see the bruiser. The brawler.

The hothead who gets carded too often and can’t keep his mouth shut. And sure, I might’ve chucked a chair or two in my time, but I live for this game.

I bleed for it.

Rugby is the one place I’ve ever made sense.

I’m not the clever one.

That’d be my brother, Tank. He’s the brain. The planner. The golden boy.

Me? I’m just the guy who knows how to hit hard and carry harder. Who understands the rhythm of the scrum like a heartbeat.

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